


Hand Repair

by Raptorofwar



Category: Little Witch Academia
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:33:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27479617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raptorofwar/pseuds/Raptorofwar
Summary: Croix is out of jail. Whether it's on temporary leave or permanent release, it doesn't matter. In any case, guilt can drive a person to make poor decisions. Like buy a bottle of absinthe.Croix is drunk. Very drunk.
Relationships: Croix Meridies & Constanze Amalie von Braunschbank-Albrechtsberger
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21





	Hand Repair

The moonlight shone through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the hallway with a cold blue light. Croix stumbled forward through the hall, swaying back and forth, a bottle of absinthe cradled underneath her right arm. She hummed tunelessly, a slight smile on her face, meandering from left to right. She couldn’t walk in a straight line if she tried, and frankly she didn’t care.

Croix wasn’t sure where she was going, or that she had a destination in mind at all, but she found herself in front of her old workshop. Out of habit, probably; she’d been in there enough times. She shoved open the doors, pushing against the heavy wood, ignoring the grating against the floor. When they opened, she almost lost her balance, but righted herself at the last moment.

With a lazy wave of her wand, the lamps came on, bathing the room in yellow light. She stumbled through, picking her way through the various metal scrap and broken machines littering the floor, and walked into the wall opposite the door. She slid down against the stone, and sat down, back against it, bottle clasped tightly in her hand. Another swig.

She surveyed the work that laid in pieces around her. Some of it didn’t seem familiar, but she was so drunk that she couldn’t have recognized her own mother in a lineup. It was fitting, she thought, that all she’d built laid in pieces around her.

Whenever she built something, either it didn’t last, or it wasn’t good to begin with.

Croix sighed, smiling blandly, and chuckled. She raised the bottle for another drink.

When she lowered it, a petite figure was standing in the doorway, one hand on the door.

“Constanze,” she said, her sozzled brain pulling the information out of the sodden depths of her memory. Croix grinned lopsidedly and waved the bottle in greeting. Constanze walked to the wall and stood beside her, frowning down at Croix.

“Is it the drinking, kid?” Croix raised an eyebrow. “This is a school, but fuck that. I’ll do what I want.” She raised the bottle back to her lips, but it was already empty. Croix squinted at a far wall, leveled her arm, and chucked the glass bottle, where it shattered with a satisfying crash.

Constanze said nothing.

“Yeah, your teachers aren’t supposed to drink.” Croix smirked. “But last I checked, I’m not a teacher anymore. Besides, it’s not like I could drop any further in everyone’s eyes as a role model anymore.”

Constanze stayed impassive. She didn’t have her chalkboard. Stanbot wasn’t with her either.

“Look at it, Consey.” Croix didn’t remember where she’d heard the nickname, but it felt appropriate. “Look at it all.” She pointed at the shattered roombas, the broken nicknacks and wingdings that she’d left behind. Little of it had been moved or cleaned since her departure from Luna Nova. “Everything I touch I break. Makes sense, doesn’t it? Broken work, from broken hands, from a broken person.”

Constanze sat down next to Croix, eyes scanning the room’s contents. Croix followed her gaze. Now that she looked again, some of the scrap definitely wasn’t hers.

“Some of this yours?” Croix asked.

Constanze nodded.

Croix grunted. “I don’t mean your stuff, of course. Your stuff’s probably tip-top. You’re a good kid. Bright. You know what I can teach you? How to not be like me. Because that’s where I went wrong.” She looked up at the ceiling. “I wanted… I wanted it all to just be perfect. I wanted so damn much as a kid. Stupid, ambitious. I thought I could be the hero, when it was already obvious I could never be.” Croix looked down into her lap, and chuckled. “And then I destroyed what I did have.”

“I hate myself,” Croix said in a monotone. “I hurt so many people. I hurt Akko and Diana. I hurt Chariot. And for what? Magic?” She barked out a laugh. “My own pride, more like it.”

Constanze said nothing.

Croix hiccupped. “You know why I like you, kid?”

“You don’t talk.”

The two sat there for a while. Then Croix pushed herself to her feet. She needed to work. Something to distract her. Anything. She picked up a broken red Roomba and pushed a pile of metal scrap off a long wooden table with a clang.

A toolbox clunked down next to her. Croix looked over at Constanze, who was already moving on, fetching a broom and a dustpan to clean up the remains of Croix’s bottle, a scattering of glass shards.

Croix picked through the innards. A few fried boards, drained magic cells, and of course the obvious structural integrity problems. It’d need some use of the saw and the press to get back to working order. You weren’t supposed to use those under the influence, but Croix was beyond the point of caring.

“Hey, Consey? Could you-” Croix began, but Constanze was already there, a soldering iron in her hand. Croix took it, nodding.

Even though the work went smoothly, it took the entire night. Constanze always had just the right tool, even before Croix said anything or even knew what she herself would need. And Constanze never uttered a word, which was fine with Croix. Croix did enough talking for the both of them, fueled by the alcohol. She rambled on, moving from topic to topic abruptly, without transitions.

How magitronics was solving one problem after another, systematically. Chariot’s first ever show, and Croix’s after-show bouquet of lilies. Her studies of the Grand Triskelion and the Claimh Solais. Her confusion when Akko just forgave her, just like that. The eyes of the Noir Rod staring at her, freezing her in place with fear. Chariot’s eyes, passionate red, and so full of light, or so they used to be, back before she broke them. Prison manacles, prison bars, cold stone. The soft sensation of Chariot’s hair. The blistering cold wind on the day she came to Luna Nova. The taste of Chariot’s lips. How Akko looked almost just like Chariot; no, not the hair, but the spirit. The two of them falling off Wagandea, and how the scent of the pollen would never leave her memory. The missile, and how she’d felt a kind of cold calm, as if the fear was pushing down every other sensation. Why she ever thought any of it was a good idea. How she didn’t know why Chariot still seemed to care. Fear. Happiness. Love. Loss. Anger. And again.

Suddenly, sunlight was filling the hallway outside. The Roomba in Croix’s hands whirred and blinked green. Croix set it down, and it did a little circle on the table.

“Hey, Ramen.” Croix smiled down at it. It chirped and blinked its lights. Then it rose into the air, hovering behind her.

Constanze appraised it. She nodded approvingly.

“Thanks, kiddo. You’ve got a gift. And, uh… don’t tell any of the others about this, ok? Especially Chariot.” Croix shook her head to clear it, and took a step towards the door.

Suddenly, there was a feeling of a hand pressing comfortingly against her arm. Croix looked down, and there was Constanze, gazing solemnly up at her.

A tear rolled down Croix’s cheek; she didn’t know where it came from. Another followed. Suddenly, she was sobbing, kneeling on the ground, head against Constanze, tears streaming down her face and trickling down onto the ground.

Constanze closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around Croix’s head in a hug.

**Author's Note:**

> So! I was just thinking about how guilty Croix would feel, and how maybe they'd buy a bottle of alcohol and just drink it all. To be clear, this is not fun drinking. This is "I'll drink until I can't feel feelings" drinking.
> 
> And sometimes you don't want to go to people who will support you, i.e. Chariot. Sometimes you don't want to listen to them say, "You are a good person," because you're quite clearly not. Good people don't inadvertently hijack missiles and steal magic.
> 
> Constanze isn't there to speak. She's there to listen. I dunno, I just felt like interactions between the two mechanics would be cool to write about.
> 
> Also, I feel like everyone would call Ursula Ursula, but Croix would stick with Chariot as a kind of nickname. And since Constanze never speaks in this fic, it's just Shario, Shario, Shario.
> 
> This has been a long and rambly note. Bye! Enjoy. And if you have good feedback, feel free to say so.


End file.
